Fog Season

by Patrice Sarath

  “What is Inigho’s real game?”

  Loud giggles from the other end of the parlor gave their conversation cover. As the young ladies sat down to a childish game of lottery tickets and the other mamas chatted, Mrs Demaris and Yvienne Mederos talked business.

  It was a gambit designed to impress Inigho’s formidable mother and flatter her to think she was privy to her son’s business dealings. Or not flatter exactly, Yvienne thought, but to assure her that Yvienne knew the old woman was not out of the game yet but was a full partner in House Demaris.

  As she expected, Mrs Demaris’s old eyes gleamed.

  “Every merchant’s game is to make money,” the old woman said. “But you mean with the contract. That was my doing – an attention-getter, no more.”

  “It worked. Of course we won’t sign it, it’s ridiculous.” Yvienne waved it away as if the idea were a bothersome gnat. “But it gave me food for thought.”

  “He’s a good man,” Mrs Demaris said, quite unexpectedly. Yvienne experienced a start of surprise. “He’s not pretty, but he’s got brains, I’ll give him that. And depths, my dear. He has depths.”

  What on earth? Stunned, Yvienne said, “Are you matchmaking?” The contract was a matchmaking overture?

  “Why not?” Mrs Demaris said. Her voice dropped, and she and Yvienne sat head to head. “A connection between our two Houses – you wouldn’t have to worry about the reputation of House Mederos anymore.”

  How absurd, Yvienne thought. Uncle Samwell had been right about the contract – but for the wrong reasons. “I’m flattered,” she said, shaking her head. “But I’m not ready to form that kind of connection.”

  Mrs Demaris snorted. “Girls these days. What’s the delay? You’ll have to marry someone, and what are your choices? Amos Kerrill?”

  They both looked over at Mrs Kerrill. This unprepossessing woman, mousy and tired, was entirely caught up in the game the girls were playing. She had seven other children besides Amos, and it was widely known that her husband bullied her terribly. Yvienne knew what Mrs Demaris was trying to convey – the apple wouldn’t fall far from that tree. They turned away from the unsuspecting and unfairly targeted lady, and back to each other.

  “I have nothing against Inigho,” Yvienne said. “Except for that ludicrous contract. Anyway, I have no intention of marrying soon, and when I do marry, I intend to consider the needs of my House as well as the needs of myself.”

  Odd, she thought. She had never once considered marriage or her requirements for it. She had only known that she would marry someday. But I do have requirements, she thought, and it would be foolish not to consider them.

  “Girls,” Mrs Demaris said. “Heads full of nonsense. I hadn’t expected it of you.”

  Yvienne ignored her disdain. “I have a business proposition for Inigho,” she said. “Will he be interested, do you think?”

  “He’s a merchant,” Mrs Demaris said. “Of course he’ll be interested.”

  “Then I will send to his office for an appointment,” Yvienne said.

  “I’ll tell him to dress for company,” his mother said, wryly.

  A rap at the door caught their attention, and the men filed into the room following Jax Charvantes. The women greeted their husbands with a general air of merriment, and under cover of the hubbub Yvienne scanned each one. Six months ago Tesara had been captured by Trune and paraded in full view in front of many of the men in this parlor. All of those men were now arrayed before them.

  She looked across the parlor at her sister. Tesara’s gloved hands were clenched in her lap, a small, pursed smile her fixed expression. Prisms and prunes, Yvienne remembered. Their old nurse Michelina used to tell them that. A lady arranged her features in a pleasing fashion by mouthing the words prisms and prunes for the correct effect.

  Her sister’s hands were glowing through her gloves. Yvienne froze. No one was paying attention to the younger Mederos daughter, but if anyone looked at her…

  Yvienne dropped her teacup. It tumbled to the floor, splashing the dregs onto her skirt and the embroidered pouf that she and Mrs Demaris had been conversing over. She leaped to her feet.

  “Oh dear!” she said. “Elenor, I do apologize. I’m so clumsy. In front of the gentlemen too,” she added with as much distress as she could muster.

  “Oh,” Elenor said, flustered, because she had risen to greet the gentlemen, and now had to attend to her guests.

  “Never mind, dear,” said Mrs Sansieri, and she gestured to the servant to clean the small spill. The older ladies all clustered around, clucking with disappointment at the disaster, and all giving advice to prevent stains. Their daughters were bright-eyed with suppressed laughter. Oh, the gossip to come, Yvienne thought. She exchanged glances with Tesara. There was no longer any sign of a glow, and her sister gave the tiniest nod. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Our fault, our fault,” boomed Mr Havartá in a joshing way. “Come now, ladies, we didn’t mean to cause a fuss.”

  Then the last man filed into the room and Yvienne had the distinct feeling that her day had gone from bad to disastrous.

  “Ladies,” Mr Havartá said. “May I present Abel Fresnel? He’s a Harrier, come to investigate the doings of last year. Abel Fresnel, the treasure of Port Saint Frey.”

  The Harrier looked out of place in the fine company of well-dressed merchants and lovely ladies. He glanced over at Yvienne, took in the mess of tea on her skirts and gave a brief nod, which she returned, having the distinct impression he knew exactly what she had done.

  As hostess, Elenor came forward to meet him. Jax Charvantes hastened to intercept. “My wife, Elenor Charvantes.”

  Elenor went to curtsey, just as Abel stuck out his hand, instead of bowing. The room was charged with a shock that had nothing to do with Tesara.

  “Oh,” Elenor said, and instead of finishing her curtsey, she did the polite thing to make her guest feel at ease. She reached out and took his hand.

  Such a simple thing, thought Yvienne, and yet so much happened. Everyone was frozen around them, the young girls bright with laughter and shock at the scandalous false step, the mamas disapproving. The men verged on shock too, but also anger, and of them Jax Charvantes was almost apoplectic with fury at Abel’s transgression.

  In a second it was over and everyone could breathe again. Yvienne looked from Elenor, breathless and red-faced, to Abel, whose expression was one of a man bemused, to Jax Charvantes.

  Yvienne felt something akin to pity. In his eagerness to ruin House Mederos, Jax Charvantes had to watch his wife fall in love with another man.

  Chapter Eight

  The Port Saint Frey Constabulary warns all citizens that any attempt to take advantage of Fog Season with deceit, mummery, fraud, banditry, robbery, burglary, or other felonious activity will be met with the stiffest penalties. ~~ The Iderci Empress has been sighted off the coast of the Emerald Islands, according to the Canterra mail packet just docked; House Iderci has beat the local speed record by two days, set by the Lupiere Hycynthia. House Lupiere was not available for comment.

  The Gazette

  Bravo, Papa! Yvienne thought upon reading the news. She had been hoping for such a report in the two weeks since her parents set sail. Her father must be ecstatic. He was no doubt chalking up the ship’s speed to his advice to the captain. She scanned the rest of the paper, making mental notes of the commodity and stock prices, and reading the advertisements for shoes, tooth powder, harnesses, stays, and in the help wanted notices, household help. There was always a shortage of housemaids.

  She looked up from the paper as her sister entered the breakfast room. Tesara was dressed in a warm nightgown, a voluminous bathing robe, and slippers. Yvienne snickered.

  “Don’t make fun,” Tesara complained. “I’m freezing, Vivi. Can we have more fires?”

  “Have some coffee. And Mrs Francini has made the best porridge. I swear, I thought Mathilde’s was the best I had ever ta
sted, but I think that was because it was so soon after that nasty slop we were served at Madam Callier’s. Mrs Francini puts whiskey in hers.”

  Tesara slid into her chair with difficulty. She helped herself to porridge, steaming under its cover, and Yvienne poured her coffee.

  “You know we can’t have more fires,” Yvienne continued, but she could sympathize. It was dreadful being rich and poor at the same time. She was working on expanding the company business and it was starting to pick up, but for now fires were an expense that had to be limited. At least we have enough food. And we can pay our staff. And business is growing, though if that blasted Harrier would just leave town, it would pick up faster. His mere presence was making potential partners skittish, or in the case of Inigho Demaris, opportunistic. Inigho had accepted her offer of a meeting, at least. She would make him explain himself. The match might have been his mother’s idea, but she had no doubt the contract was all Inigho’s.

  Tesara sighed, blowing across her coffee. “I know. I’m only complaining for form’s sake. Black sheep, you know.”

  “They’re away. You don’t have to keep doing it,” Yvienne said, her voice softened. It wasn’t easy for her little sister, and never had been. She had always been a bit of a disappointment to their parents, who couldn’t understand her scattered nature or her dislike of anything to do with business. It was utterly impossible to tell their parents about Tesara’s unusual talents, both her singular power or her card-playing gifts. They would deny the first and disparage the second, as if anything that Tesara touched was of no value. It was the same with Uncle Samwell, she realized with a pang. She herself had been guilty of the same attitude toward him. Two black sheep, both the youngest in their respective families. When had anyone ever had confidence in them?

  “What?” Tesara said, at her long silence. Yvienne just smiled and shook her head.

  “Nothing. I’m a bit distracted this morning,” she said.

  “It’s the cold,” Tesara agreed. “You simply can’t concentrate. Your mind is slowing; your very thoughts are freezing…” She shrieked and batted away the toast that Yvienne threw at her.

  The door opened and they both turned to look as Uncle Samwell staggered into the room, wrapped in a loud bathing robe, a bath towel wrapped around his shoulders for extra warmth.

  “Yvienne, what are you going to do about the fires?” he grumbled. He squeezed into a chair at the end of the table, reached a long arm over to the covered bowl of porridge and gave the contents a hard stare when he lifted the lid. “Good God. Has there been another fraud?”

  “It’s lovely and it’s good for you,” Yvienne said, her voice tight. Why couldn’t he have slept in, as he had been doing?

  With great deliberation Samwell recovered the porridge, and poured himself coffee. “I’ll breakfast at the docks,” he said, stirring in three lumps of sugar and a dollop of cream. “I’m surprised, Vivi. I expected you to manage things better. Or no – did you give over the household duties to Tesara?” Tesara stuck her tongue out at him, which he missed, but she otherwise slumped back into her robe like a disgruntled cat.

  “Speaking of households, I heard an interesting tidbit at Aether’s,” Samwell went on, after taking a sip. “Vivi, are you fixing your interest on Inigho Demaris?”

  Tesara turned to look at her, shock and horror in her expression.

  Yvienne rolled her eyes. Oh, those Names – the worst gossips in the world. It was part of the reason the principal investors and insurers in Port Saint Frey were so wealthy, but she wanted to box their hairy old ears. She had no intention of letting Uncle Samwell know for sure she had an appointment with Inigho Demaris later that week.

  “Never you mind,” she said. “Eat your porridge, uncle. It’s good for you.”

  “Vivi, they haven’t been gone two weeks. You don’t need to turn into your mother quite so soon.”

  “Apparently I do,” she snapped.

  “Seriously, Yvienne. Or rather, you can’t be serious,” Tesara put in. “Married?”

  Yvienne made a face. “You two are terrible. I’m not planning to marry him. He proposed–”

  “Ah hah!” they chorused.

  “–a business arrangement, which you, uncle, had a hand in. I am proposing a counter offer – strictly business – to get better terms.”

  Uncle Samwell slammed his flat hand onto the table, making the crockery jump. “So you see? It was my doing. I told you, you underestimate my value to the family.”

  “If by value, you mean bringing the business deal to my attention, yes, of course. But it was impossible to sign without negotiations.”

  “Well, I knew that,” Samwell muttered.

  The girls exchanged glances.

  Yvienne drained the last of her coffee and stood. “You two finish breakfast. Albero and Mrs Francini have the monthly household accounts to go over so I’m off to the kitchen.”

  “See if there are sausages,” Samwell called after her.

  “Eat your porridge,” she called back, and closed the doors on his groan.

  At her approach Albero and Mrs Francini stood up from the kitchen table. Yvienne waved them back to their seats. Noe was somewhere else – she made a mental note to see if the girl lurked around anywhere.

  “More coffee, Miss Yvienne?” Mrs Francini asked with her usual good cheer.

  “No, thank you, Mrs Francini. I’ve had a cup with breakfast. The porridge was wonderful.”

  “It’s just the thing to hold back the weather,” Mrs Francini said. “I’m going to get a start on the noonday meal, so if you don’t mind, I’ll be at the stove while you two have your talk. I’ll put in my two groats when necessary.”

  She turned her back to them, leaving Yvienne and Albero face to face. He was about three or four years older than Yvienne, far too young to be a butler, but he was steady and grave and took the responsibility well. Nearly seven years before, he was a skinny young footman, but by the time they had come home from Madam Callier’s Academy for Young Ladies, he had grown a few inches and filled out.

  She assumed he had forgiven her for her ruthless actions the night she rescued Tesara, but asking him about it would have only embarrassed the both of them. He seemed to have overcome it, maintaining his steady composure. She gave him a friendly smile.

  “So what is the household report?” she asked him.

  He turned the ledger around.

  It was all meticulously presented. Alinesse had assured her that the household was well-managed between Albero and Mrs Francini, who rubbed along together like an old couple. Yvienne went down the list, running her finger along the expenses and the income.

  “We did have a question,” Albero said, hesitant. He pointed to the notation next to one of the entries. Misc. funds. The notation appeared with some regularity down the neat columns, adding up to a tidy sum. “Madam Mederos asked us about that, and I didn’t have an answer.”

  Mrs Francini turned around, and Yvienne knew at once that they had discussed this before confronting her. “I felt that bad, not knowing where the money had come from, and all I could tell her was that it came from you,” Mrs Francini said.

  Yvienne nodded, nary a flicker in her expression. “Oh, of course,” she said lightly. “Mama asked me about that too, and I completely forgot to tell you what I told her.” She stopped, heart hammering.

  “And that was?” Mrs Francini prompted, when Yvienne said nothing more.

  “Oh! Yes, of course. How silly. You see, that’s from my governess days. Sometimes, Mrs TreMondi paid me extra wages. On the days I stayed over for astronomy lessons, or tutored Dubre TreMondi in maths so he stayed at the head of his class at the Academy.”

  There was a tiny pause, and then Albero and Mrs Francini both nodded. “Of course,” Mrs Francini said.

  “That makes sense,” Albero said, with a judicious nod.

  “Right,” Yvienne said, thrusting down her guilt at lying to two of her favorite p
eople. “Anything else?”

  “No, that was it,” Albero said.

  “Good. All looks in order,” she said. “Thanks, Albero and Mrs Francini. Now I wanted to ask you both; you’ve taken on the tasks of a housekeeper between the two of you. Do we need to engage a professional in that capacity?”

  She hoped they would say no. Adding staff would mean channeling more of their ill-gotten gains through the household, and she didn’t want to lie more than she had to. But she couldn’t understaff the house, not if it meant overworking her cook and butler.

  The look that young Albero and wise Mrs Francini exchanged suggested a wordless communication. Mrs Francini said, “It’s a very good idea, Miss Mederos. But Albero and I think that until your mother and father come back, and with the household so quiet, we can make do as we have been. When the House comes back into her own, then we can go to full staff. And I have no problem with training Noe in all her tasks, although she’s a bit flighty, but then girls are these days.”

  Flighty was the least of Noe’s faults, Yvienne thought, smiling with relief.

  “So long as you both agree,” she said. “Perhaps we can hire temporary staff as needed if anything comes up. But that brings me to another item. I’d like to shut off the southern rooms, including the solar, since it’s Fog Season, as well as the third floor. Have a last fire burned to take the wet off and then cover the furniture.”

  “We’ll have it done,” Albero said. “Which reminds me, did Madam Mederos tell you what she wanted with the dumbwaiter?”

  “Yes, and I’ve meant to ask what you think. I do think Mama might have taken a quite unreasonable dislike to the contraption, which if it worked, would be an asset to the household, would it not?”

  To his credit, Albero’s expression did not change. He had seen her clamber inside it six months ago. It had been an asset back then too.

  “Well, miss, when it worked it was quite useful. It has been jammed for the last six months.” Albero looked away with a studious expression, and after a moment she realized that he was trying to keep from – laughing? Mrs Francini just looked at the two of them, and Yvienne bit her lip, trying to keep her composure.